So I spent a few minutes at a local Target this morning picking through the racks of their latest designer collaboration, this time with Phillip Lim, whose 3.1 Phillip Lim line has garnered high praise and awards from critics and consumers alike. Lim's aesthetic is refined urban street chic. His take on the motorcycle jacket shows restraint while also adhering to the womanly curves of its wearer. Prices range from $150 for a t-shirt to $1700 for a coat. In fashion terms, Lim is affordable. Which is just one of the reasons that we, the hoi poloi, have flocked to Target, H&M, and Zara in droves when a designer, such as Lim, goes slumming with a capsule collection for these fast fashion outlets.
As soon as I walked into Target, the Phillip Lim display was front and center, with ladies apparel that included elliptical-hemmed tanks, belted Burberry-inspired trench coats, floral collage vests/jackets/dresses, and black pebble-grained tote bags that looked like downmarket replicas of Lim's luxury version of the bag - all modestly priced. There were also some pieces for men, including black high-top sneakers, camouflage tees and sweatshirts, and button down dress shirts. It was all pretty sad - designer duds under florescent lighting. While I walked the rest of this parade route of sad fashion, a mother and her teenage son entered the Phillip Lim maze. She was trying on one of the trench coats, which was clearly too large for her, so I mentioned that I had seen some smaller sizes a couple of racks over from us. She thanked me, and went on to tell me about her experience on the opening day at one of these Target designer collaborations down in her hometown of Miami, Florida. The woman's leg was in a cast at the time, and as she limped along with some of the designer items in her shopping cart, a young woman approached her and snatched two items from our hobbled friend. It was a feeding frenzy! We parted, and, just then, the jagged sobs from a toddler long past their nap time rung out behind me, and I knew that it was time to go.
I made my way out to my car, feeling ill at ease, and I couldn't understand why a little fast fashion was having such a negative effect on me. I started to go through my mental catalog of favorite fashion memories. As a little girl, I would spend hours flipping through Vogue magazine, mesmerized by the clothes. By the time I was a teenager, fashion magazines were where I spent most of my disposable income. I imagined myself in those body-conscious Donna Karan dresses, or kitted out in head-to-toe Givenchy Rive Gauche, with a soundtrack of Grace Jones' "Slave to the Rhythm". I had Haute Couture dreams on a Gap budget, but that was OK. A girl can dream, and that was the great gift of fashion then and now.
There's a wonderful documentary about Yves Saint Laurent and there's a scene with the wondrous actress Catherine Deneuve doing her final fittings for her everyday suits at the designer's atelier. And while the conversation between Ms. Deneuve and the team at Yves Saint Laurent touches on chickens and hens and breeding, La Deneuve speaks on the joys of the caress of silk on the skin, specifically the silk of the skirts and dresses from Yves Saint Laurent. Fashion of this caliber is special. And even though I choose to spend my dollars on groceries and other daily essentials and not a pair of $800 designer shoes, I don't want luxury fashion to climb down from its high place.
Years ago on my very first trip to Paris during an uncharacteristically frigid week in December between Christmas and New Year's Day, my friend, Jenn, and I took an early morning stroll and passed the Givenchy store. It was closed, but I still insisted on her taking a photo of me in front of the store. This place was like a temple of fashion and my joy was just in seeing these pieces of tremendous beauty, not in possessing them. So, for the Phillip Lims out there, I'm going to pass on the fast fashion and the collaborations, and stick with the fantasy.
Showing posts with label designers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label designers. Show all posts
Friday, September 20, 2013
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Don't Diss the Clogs: One Woman's Crusade Against the Agony of De-Feet!
Recently, celebrity shoe-meister Christian Louboutin announced from his 5-inch Mount Olympus that he detests clogs - I'm talking the shoes, not those pesky plumbing problems. For those not in the know, today's clogs are a far cry from the old wooden shoes your grandparents brought back from their trip to Holland. The clog is a rugged, comfortable piece of footwear - maybe not so stylish if you equate style with excruciatingly painful strutting about on sky-high stilts.
The Clog Nation - that's what I'm calling us - is a proud collection of smart, productive people with very comfortable feet. Turn on an episode of "Top Chef" and you'll see our legions proudly stomping around kitchens doing things with lamb and rosemary that will make you weep with joy. Not a foodie? Then take a trip to the nearest ER or your dentist's office and you'll see more of our number in their hospital white clogs. Want to get that new hairdo? Well while your stylist is giving you a cut and a blow-dry, you might want to check out their tootsies sporting the latest in clog fashion.
It took a long while, and many painful steps on blistered feet to make me a clog convert. At age 13, I got my first pair of heels. They were bright white and we bought them at Fayva, a purveyor of cheap and plentiful shoes. The occasion was my Confirmation, which required that I wear a white dress, and, hence, the white heels. I tried them on under the brassy, fluorescent store lights and made my first, tentative steps over to my mom, just like I was a one-year old taking my first steps all over again. I should've known, then, that my feet were in for one hell of a tough road. The shoes stayed in their box until the day of the Confirmation service. I was more excited about the shoes than the religious ceremony, but soon I was praying to God harder than I'd ever prayed before because those crappy white heels put the hurt on me, but good! After 3 hours in 3-inch heels I was more than happy to put those beasts back in the box, and I did, for a while.
But then I went to grad school and the heels came back - sky high platforms, stilettos, stacked-heel boots. I trucked throughout Boston on a closet full of Aldo shoes, even braving the icy, snowy sidewalks in uncomfortable and wobbly footwear. I looked fabulous - don't get me wrong! But the shin splints and Achilles tendon issues put a painful crimp in my style. Ever walked up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk-up with swollen feet crammed into 4-inch peep-toe pumps at the end of the night?
My "scared straight" moment occurred during a two-day conference after grad school. I was a member of the team running the conference, with an emphasis on "running." As the youngest staffer and the new hire, I was the gopher, pounding the boiling hot summertime Washington, DC pavements on every conceivable errand for my boss. And yes, I was in heels - silly, stupid 3-inch croc-embossed, black heels. By the end of the first day of the conference, minutes before I was to go home and soak my tired toes, I was, unexpectedly dispatched to take care of a top-priority last-minute item - bringing materials to the evening reception and dinner for the conference attendees. Oh, and I'd need to remain on-site until the dinner concluded. On my way over to the reception site, though, I passed a small shoe store. I'd passed this store several times, but that day I went in, and there, on the walls were the keys to my salvation - the ugliest shoe in the world. They had my size and as the salesman was spouting me the sales talking points, my feet and I were falling in love - a deep, undeniable love. I threw my heels in the trashcan and my life was changed forever.
My clogs and I have seen some amazing things - we've met Presidents of the United States, Secretaries of State, religious leaders, and various Senators and Congressmen. We've traveled the world, from Bangkok to Budapest. We've sailed the high seas, performed in concert halls, and chased after house cats. In short, my ugly shoes have opened up my world, freeing me from the toe tyranny of the legion of little French men who create absurd shoes for women. So, here's my personal challenge to Mr. Louboutin - go and live your life, do what you do every day, but do it wearing those ridiculous shoes that you create for us ladies. My clogs and I will be waiting to hear from you:) I'm just saying!
The Clog Nation - that's what I'm calling us - is a proud collection of smart, productive people with very comfortable feet. Turn on an episode of "Top Chef" and you'll see our legions proudly stomping around kitchens doing things with lamb and rosemary that will make you weep with joy. Not a foodie? Then take a trip to the nearest ER or your dentist's office and you'll see more of our number in their hospital white clogs. Want to get that new hairdo? Well while your stylist is giving you a cut and a blow-dry, you might want to check out their tootsies sporting the latest in clog fashion.
It took a long while, and many painful steps on blistered feet to make me a clog convert. At age 13, I got my first pair of heels. They were bright white and we bought them at Fayva, a purveyor of cheap and plentiful shoes. The occasion was my Confirmation, which required that I wear a white dress, and, hence, the white heels. I tried them on under the brassy, fluorescent store lights and made my first, tentative steps over to my mom, just like I was a one-year old taking my first steps all over again. I should've known, then, that my feet were in for one hell of a tough road. The shoes stayed in their box until the day of the Confirmation service. I was more excited about the shoes than the religious ceremony, but soon I was praying to God harder than I'd ever prayed before because those crappy white heels put the hurt on me, but good! After 3 hours in 3-inch heels I was more than happy to put those beasts back in the box, and I did, for a while.
But then I went to grad school and the heels came back - sky high platforms, stilettos, stacked-heel boots. I trucked throughout Boston on a closet full of Aldo shoes, even braving the icy, snowy sidewalks in uncomfortable and wobbly footwear. I looked fabulous - don't get me wrong! But the shin splints and Achilles tendon issues put a painful crimp in my style. Ever walked up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk-up with swollen feet crammed into 4-inch peep-toe pumps at the end of the night?
My "scared straight" moment occurred during a two-day conference after grad school. I was a member of the team running the conference, with an emphasis on "running." As the youngest staffer and the new hire, I was the gopher, pounding the boiling hot summertime Washington, DC pavements on every conceivable errand for my boss. And yes, I was in heels - silly, stupid 3-inch croc-embossed, black heels. By the end of the first day of the conference, minutes before I was to go home and soak my tired toes, I was, unexpectedly dispatched to take care of a top-priority last-minute item - bringing materials to the evening reception and dinner for the conference attendees. Oh, and I'd need to remain on-site until the dinner concluded. On my way over to the reception site, though, I passed a small shoe store. I'd passed this store several times, but that day I went in, and there, on the walls were the keys to my salvation - the ugliest shoe in the world. They had my size and as the salesman was spouting me the sales talking points, my feet and I were falling in love - a deep, undeniable love. I threw my heels in the trashcan and my life was changed forever.
My clogs and I have seen some amazing things - we've met Presidents of the United States, Secretaries of State, religious leaders, and various Senators and Congressmen. We've traveled the world, from Bangkok to Budapest. We've sailed the high seas, performed in concert halls, and chased after house cats. In short, my ugly shoes have opened up my world, freeing me from the toe tyranny of the legion of little French men who create absurd shoes for women. So, here's my personal challenge to Mr. Louboutin - go and live your life, do what you do every day, but do it wearing those ridiculous shoes that you create for us ladies. My clogs and I will be waiting to hear from you:) I'm just saying!
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